Touching Light
by Broken-Vow
Summary: He never intended to hurt her, yet the events have consequences, as all do.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to yet another story! I suppose it's movie-based, as you will see, but please imagine your favorite stage Phantom and Christine instead of Butler and Rossum. That would make it so much better. :) Enjoy!**

_Touching Light_

The air was bated, waiting for something, and the snow that fell softly intensified the sheer silence. The snow blanketed the slabs of stone, covering the names and dates, taking away identities. It fell on the statues, who watched the ground with reverent eyes. There had been nothing today, no mourners to watch the ground solemnly before slowly walking away. The snow lay, undisturbed, and it dulled itself with the gray coverings of the sky. The snow waited. The statues waited. The very air waited.

All direction was turned to the young woman who entered the graveyard, apparently alone and looking very lost. The snow immediately graced her with its presence, and the air broke around her. Statues turned their gazes toward her, watching as she slowly made her way through the stone and trees.

She was searching for something, searching for some kind of help and comfort. Neither the snow nor air nor statues could help her, yet that was all she had for company. Her blue dress dragged heavily through the snow, and the dark red scarf that hung about her neck suggested something else on the young woman's mind. She stopped in front of a tall grave, and she simply stood, lost in thought.

The man who lay in the grave had been more than simply a father. He had been her best and only friend, confidante, mother, and cherished companion all in one. His very world revolved around the sad, strange young woman, who wilted when he was put here. _Her _very world revolved around him throughout the years. The statues watched emotionlessly as she wiped a fast-falling tear from her cheek.

_I need your help, Father_.

Yet the last time he had wanted to help her, he sent her an Angel of Music, who was still just as strange and mysterious as he was when she first heard him. He had to be an Angel, for no mere man could posses a voice like his, but yet he _was _a man. She had seen him and felt his long fingers touch her. However, that night beneath the Opera House remained a foggy memory. He enchanted her, clouded her senses with sweet words and whispers, drugged her with his voice. But the next morning, and his face…Perhaps he was simply an alluring demon. His costume at the Masquerade Ball suggested as much, yet even then he spoke and walked just as a normal man would. Her head spun, and she gasped in the cold, waiting air. If such a man as he existed, what role did she play in his twisted existence? What could she possibly have to offer him?

The young woman passed a white hand over her equally pale face before looking back at the grave, praying for the help that she wanted and needed. This time was about her father, not her Angel who haunted her subconscious mind and took over her drifting consciousness whenever she had a moment to spare. Her tracks in the snow were slowly being filled in, and she was as still as the statues that surrounded her. She could remember her father's smiling face, laughing at her as she, a young girl, roamed the seaside. His voice still travelled with her, warning her and encouraging her.

Another voice drifted from the wind. It was soft, alluring, inviting, and she looked in amazement at the grave. Could it be...?

"_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance_…"

There was a profound silence while she looked up at the gravesite. With hesitation, she answered the heavenly voice, questioning it as well:

"_Angel or Father – friend or phantom – who is it there, staring_?"

And it called to her with such desperation and beauty that she felt no fear in climbing closer to it. Light spilled on her face, warming her, a heavenly light that seemed to come directly from the mausoleum itself. The voice took her in and reprimanded her.

"_Angel of Music, you denied me, turning from true beauty_."

For one small, glorious moment, there was an Angel of Music, and he called to her gently, telling her of her father's love and approval. She accepted the Angel's voice, destroying the horrid image of the Phantom, and continued toward the light.

"No, Christine, wait!"

Another voice – this one urgent and hurried. She wanted to look, but the Angel was more insistent now, and it did not let her go. _I am your Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music._

"Wait! Christine!"

There was a thundering of hooves. Someone forcefully grabbed her and turned her around, and the spell was broken. Suddenly there was no light, no Angel, no voice, and her father was gone. The air was again cold and frigid, and she saw Raoul's worried expression before her.

"Raoul!" she gasped, unable to explain.

He pressed her arm and said quickly, "Whatever you believe, this man – this _thing_ – is not your father!"

A shadow materialized over them, and it separated the young woman and man. There was a flash and the sound of metal, and soon the shadow and Raoul were away from the mausoleum. The statues watched their contest with Christine, who stood only for a moment before hurrying after them.

"Stop, please!" she shouted, running after the pair, who had moved farther away.

The air was alive now, crackling and fiery as the two men danced around each other, their swords clashing violently. Both moved flawlessly, confident in his ability. It was known, unspoken, that this contest would be decided by luck.

Without wasting time, the shadow spun quickly, his black cloak whipping out behind him, and from its depths he struck. There was a shower of red blood and an agonized shout as Raoul staggered for a moment, looking at his damaged right arm.

"_No!_" Christine shrieked, watching the men. "No – stop! Raoul! Phantom!"

She took a few steps closer, wanting to touch one of them, to calm them, but the sharp, cruel-looking blades held her at bay.

"Step back, Christine!" the Phantom barked, throwing a smoldering glance at her. Raoul took the opportunity, and the Phantom hissed as he saw the injury in his own right forearm.

"Now we see you are no ghost!" Raoul said defiantly. "Ghosts do not bleed!"

The struggle intensified as they continued throughout the graveyard, finally locking themselves in a tight corner. Christine stood near them, continuing her pleas with no success. Their swords rose high in the air, slicing it, shoving away the snow, and Christine screamed, taking a step forward as the blades came down.

"Stop – stop it! Phantom – Angel – "

Her words were cut off with a sharp gasp. There was a sudden stillness. The air settled and was alive with the anticipation. The snow continued to fall, muffling the sounds and mocking the scene with its serenity. Both men stood staring, their swords still held ready with blood staining the metal. Christine quietly looked down at her dress and saw that the blue was beginning to darken rapidly. Slowly, her hand touched the area, and crimson stained her fingers. She fell to the ground, hot red blood falling onto the white snow. For another moment, surprised silence reigned.

"No," Raoul suddenly whispered, falling to his knees beside her. "Did I…?"

Quickly, the Phantom shoved the young man aside, sending him into the snow. He placed fingers under Christine's neck, his exposed skin as white as the mask that rested on the other half of his face. Slight color came back when he felt a pulse, still strong. He sighed forcefully and touched the damp area, alarmed at the blood loss. With inhuman speed, he gathered her into his arms and stood. The jerk brought Christine back, and her eyes fluttered momentarily. She muttered incoherently, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes.

"Where are you taking her?" Raoul demanded, leaping to his feet. "What are you doing? Give her back to me!"

The Phantom paid him no mind – he didn't have the sense to acknowledge Raoul de Chagny. It was as if he was not there. Nearly running, the masked man carried Christine to the white horse that had moved away from them. With some difficulty, he climbed onto its unsaddled back and nestled Christine against his chest.

"Wait!" Raoul shouted as the horse took off, its hooves kicking up the falling snow. "Wait – Christine!"


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing else mattered. Nothing mattered except getting help for Christine. He kicked the horse mercilessly, ignoring its squeals as it raced through Paris. The snow had stopped, and the air was frigid. It whipped against the masked man's face. His cloak billowed out behind them, and it looked like wings on the back of a great white beast. He only concentrated on two things: where he was going and Christine. He held her very carefully, for riding bareback at such a great speed with her was tricky and dangerous, and he gripped her tightly. The horse's hooves clattered loudly against the stone.

Early evening was settling. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds, and now it was settling in for the night. A gray, ugly light pierced through the city of Paris, and most people had turned in for the evening, escaping the gloomy weather and chill. He raced through small streets and large ones, using his extensive knowledge of the Parisian roads to get there as quickly as possible. Finally, thundering down Rue Charlemagne, he pulled the horse to a stop, deaf to its shriek as the bit cut into its mouth. The Phantom slid off the horse with Christine and ran up some steps. A small, plain-looking wooden door looked lifeless in the evening, but the masked man smashed his fist into it so ferociously that it swung open quickly.

"How dare you – !" gasped a voice, but the Phantom paid it no heed, hurrying in the warm sitting room.

"Help her," he choked, holding out Christine. A small, white-haired man with little round spectacles saw the young woman, and his face drained of color.

"Come with me," he said quickly, leading the way to a small room down the hall. It had only a few pieces of furniture in it: a bed, a chair, and a table, and the Phantom laid Christine out on the bed, watching her intently.

"You are lucky my wife has not gone to bed for the night," said the small man, hurrying to the hallway. "Jeanette!" he yelped to the little flat. "Jeanette, come here at once! Bring some supplies!" With surprising speed, he was over by Christine once again, attacking her clothing.

"What relation is she to you?" asked the white-haired man, casting a glance at the Phantom.

"My wife," he replied swiftly.

"Help me with her clothes, then, and quickly!"

Scarlet crept up into the Phantom's exposed cheek, but he proceeded to help the short man roll her onto her side and undo the buttons in the back of her dress. A woman quickly entered the room. She was tall and dark-haired, carrying towels, bandages, and a basin of water. The Phantom quickly stepped out of the way for her. When the top of Christine's dress was pulled down, revealing her crimson-stained corset and undergarments, he could not allow himself to watch anymore.

The doctor and his assistant did not pay him mind as he, shaken and pale, left the room. Now that the rush was over, he stood stiffly in the hall, impatiently, hating the fact that he had to wait until something was done. But he could not go back in the room. He heard their voices, the worry in them, but he was frozen in the hallway. If she died…he would be able to blame _someone_. He could not survive the thought that he was the cause for her death. And so he would stand here and wait, tormented. His mind reeled with the events. He closed his eyes momentarily and pictured the scene – his sword was drawn low, while the Viscount's was high. The Phantom could have very well hurt her by going down, but the Viscount's sword could just have very well pierced her while swinging up.

He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face, feeling his mask, still chilled by the weather, brush against his fingers. For a moment, he wondered how long he would be able to stay here without drawing suspicion. After all, this was the doctor's personal home, and he was simply a strange masked man who barged in with a seriously injured young woman. But he did not want to take his Christine to a hospital: a loud, dirty, public place where people would look at her and filthy hands would touch her, and he would not be able to see her. He was willing to pay any price to this doctor to allow Christine to stay here, but for _him _to stay here while she healed was a different matter entirely. He was certainly _not_ Christine's husband, and he was not sure how long it would take for the Viscount to find them.

Their voices still drifted from the door, wrapping around him.

"…sure to tie up the last suture. Then clean up the blood and get her into a fresh gown."

"It's quite a clean cut – whatever do you think – ?"

"There is a time for wondering later," interrupted the male voice. "I will check her vitals."

There was a sound of rustling, silence, and a soft sigh that did not reveal emotion. The Phantom tensed, waiting, as the sound of footsteps neared the door. He stilled his heart, waiting for a fatal delivery – and whatever the doctor said, he would remain composed and take the blow with cool dignity. But he could not control his shaky breathing or the clamminess of his palms.

The door opened with a slight squeak, and the doctor stepped out. His shirt was covered in blood, and the masked man caught his breath slightly, knowing that it was precious, sacred blood that was displayed for the world to see.

The doctor smiled ever-so-slightly. "Your wife is very strong, Monsieur…?"

"Andre," muttered the Phantom, saying the first name that came to his mind. The doctor stuck out his hand and, warily, the masked man shook it. He did not miss how the doctor's eyes traveled to his mask, studying it. However, he did not allow himself to feel for that – Christine was more important than someone looking at his mask.

"Doctor Renard," replied the short man. "She is extraordinarily lucky that no vital organs were pierced. Her corset prevented much damage, seeing as the injury was obviously given with some kind of blade. However, I have one question."

The Phantom willed himself not to close his eyes. He knew the question. _What happened_?

"However did you discover where I lived?"

This was certainly a surprise – a good one. And although he did not wish to speak about anything except the injured young woman in the other room, the Phantom answered, "I read something about you in the _Époque_ – saving a young girl who had fallen into the Seine. They brought her here, to your home."

"Ah," said Renard. "That was some years ago. You have quite an impressive memory."

The masked man did not reply. He would be as cordial as possible for as long as was needed. He would not risk having the doctor throw them out because of his temper.

"You did not bring her to the famous Doctor Ricord – though, of course, he is indisposed, caring for the Prince, I suppose. But, nevertheless, I am humbled to think a man of your obvious wealth would come here." The doctor's glasses shone momentarily in the dim light of the hallway.

The Phantom still said nothing, but he knew that he did _look _wealthy; he would not allow himself to be dressed in anything but the richest fabrics. If he could not be beautiful, he would surround himself with beauty, and Christine was his most treasured item.

"But you only wish to hear of your wife," said Renard apologetically, sensing his tense mood. "Well, she stitched up very nicely. We have stopped the bleeding, and she is cleaned up. However, she has lost a considerable amount of blood." He paused momentarily. "What I am suggesting is still a tricky operation, but it will save her life if it is successful. I suggest a blood transfusion – in which a donor voluntarily gives some of his or her own blood to be transferred into her body."

"I will do it," said the masked man immediately. "Take all the blood you need."

"You certainly seem to have some to spare," said the doctor, eyeing the blood that covered the Phantom's shirt and that had dried on his sleeve. "Allow me to clean you up first, and then we will do the operation."

Doctor Renard led the way inside the room, and the Phantom entered cautiously, afraid to look at the bed, yet his eyes immediately went there. In the scarce light of the room, Christine looked more ghostly than ever. Her skin was pale, drawn, and her dark hair was a stark contrast against the whiteness of the bed and her nightgown. The breaths she drew were almost too weak to hear, and the masked man felt something clutch his heart.

"Sit right here, please, monsieur," said the doctor, indicating the wooden chair. Still ever-wary, the Phantom sat, watching the doctor as he gathered some clean bandages and a bowl of water. The other woman – Jeanette – picked up the bloodied materials and left the room.

"Where have you been injured?" asked Renard, setting the supplies down on the table.

"I am fine," said the Phantom quickly. "This is her blood."

"You appear to have a gash on your arm," said Renard, pointing to the tear in the Phantom's sleeve. "Let me see it."

Grudgingly, the Phantom rolled up his sleeve, silently infuriated.

"_You_ are lucky, too," said the doctor, picking up the bowl. "It is not a very deep cut." Quickly, he cleaned and bandaged the masked man's forearm. "Give me a moment to set everything up."

The doctor disappeared from the room, leaving Christine and the Phantom alone for a few minutes. He watched her breathe, his own breathing strained and nervous, thinking that every breath she took would be her last one. He wanted to touch her, feel her skin beneath his own and listen to her breathing, but he did not move from his chair and instead simply watched and imagined.

Doctor Renard entered the room, holding a curious-looking medical instrument. It had two tubes, both with cruel-looking needles at the end, attached to a silver device that resembled a small pump. The masked man could not help but feel slightly intrigued as he watched the doctor set up. At the doctor's request, the Phantom moved his chair next to the bed. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the uninjured arm and watched as Renard found the Phantom's vein and inserted the needle. There was a slight burning sensation where the needle rested. The doctor then pulled up Christine's sleeve and slid the needle into her vein. Even though it would (hopefully) save her life, the Phantom could not help but narrow his eyes slightly; something else had hurt Christine.

Soon, he could not feel the needle against his vein, and he watched Christine. She had not moved from her original position, and he asked the doctor,

"When will she wake?"

Doctor Renard looked up, surprised that the masked man had spoken, and replied, "In a day or two, if this operation is successful."

The Phantom did not ask, _And if not_…He did not want to hear the answer. There was silence as the transfusion finished and the doctor pulled out the needle. A single drop of blood welled from the Phantom's skin, but the doctor bandaged the puncture wound and then tended to Christine.

"I will leave you alone with your wife," said Doctor Renard. "Keep still for a few minutes because of your blood loss. If she changes at all or wakes, I will be in the room two doors down. Please alert me." And then he left.

Surprisingly, the Phantom did feel a bit light-headed. Perhaps the doctor had taken too much blood…But it didn't matter. He thought only of how glorious it was. _His blood mingled with hers_. They were now truly connected. Physically and spiritually, there would be no way to break that. With a sigh, he relaxed in his chair and watched as she continued to sleep. Long, lonely hours passed. The sky was beginning to become light with the dawn, but Christine still did not wake. He managed to gather enough courage to reach out and take her hand in his, gently massaging it and pressing it to his exposed cheek. But she did not respond to this. He ran his fingers over the top of her dark hair, but she did not move. He did not think of food, and he could not remember ever being tired.

Sometime during the early morning hours, Doctor Renard entered again, this time with his wife.

"Good morning," said the doctor cheerfully, his little glasses in place. "How is Madam Andre?"

_That _certainly sounded strange to the Phantom's ears. He did not respond, however, and let the doctor step closer for a look.

"She seems quite stable," Renard said, feeling her wrist. "Now, if you please, my wife will change bandages and do other necessities. Perhaps you wish for some breakfast?"

"No," said the Phantom, standing. "I will wait outside the door."

"No? Very well, but Madam Renard did make some delicious – "

"_No_," the masked man snapped angrily. "I will wait."

The doctor and his wife exchanged brief glances, but the doctor merely shrugged and led the Phantom outside the room, where he resumed his old spot and stood stiffly for twenty minutes. _She seems quite stable_. They were good words to hear. He hoped that it would not be long before he could remove her. The longer the two stayed here, the more likely the chances were for the Viscount finding them. He was such a nuisance – he would take Christine away from the Phantom and twist her thoughts against him. The masked man simply hoped that Christine would be strong and be able to be moved from this house sometime this week.

However, whatever she needed, he was willing to do, because he loved her more than anything. And so he would wait here and watch her until she finally woke.


	3. Chapter 3

He took her. _He took her_!

Raoul de Chagny's mind raced with confused, panicked thoughts. He could have hidden her away, far from medical attention. She could be dead, and he would never see her again. Raoul swallowed back the tears as he raced out of the graveyard. It was fruitless to try to catch the fine white horse. They were gone before he had a chance to make it to the gate. For a few moments, he simply stood, staring at the white-dusted road. Paris loomed in front of him, monstrous. It held too many little streets, too many homes where they could hide. But he could not sit and despair. He had to find Christine – her life depended upon it. And so, he started for Paris.

Before he had walked very far, however, a welcoming sight came into view. He saw the carriage with the two black horses waiting restlessly on the side of the road. Without much debate, Raoul climbed in and slapped the reigns. The horses took off quickly, and the carriage bounced uncomfortably with the speed. The air stung his eyes, watering them, and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision. A plan was forming clumsily in his mind. He would search the Opera House first, from top to bottom, and then he would visit every doctor in Paris. He needed to contact the gendarmes.

He was finally beginning to realize the cold, and he couldn't help but shiver violently. The blood had dried on his arm, sticking his shirt to it. Anger, however, was slowly warming him, driving him, and he slapped the reigns again, impatient for the Opera House to come into view. Dusk was falling, and the streets were clearing. Some people walking, however, yelled at him angrily as he clattered his way to the Opera House. He didn't seem to be able to see them, much less hear them.

The Opera House looked so sedate under the darkened sky. He jerked the carriage to a stop in front of the steps and raced into the grand foyer. It was clear, for the audience had filed into their seats in the house. Raoul made his way backstage, sprinting through the hallways, his breath hard and labored. When he finally found someone, he grabbed him and panted,

"Madame – Madame Giry – where is she?"

The scene shifter pointed toward the stage, and Raoul took off once again. Quite suddenly, he found himself backstage. The production was in full. Cast members and stagehands alike rushed about, carrying various props and costumes. He pushed himself through the sea of people, occasionally asking, "Madame Giry?" And, at long last, he found her with a little group of nervous girls in frilly white tutus. She was whispering last-minute instructions. Raoul seized her shoulder.

"Viscount!" she said, surprised. "What are you doing backstage? And – what happened?" She took note of his clothing and blood-stained sleeve.

"Never mind. You must help me get to the Phantom's lair, now!"

The little girls suddenly hushed themselves and watched the scene before them with wide, excited eyes. Madame Giry took note of this and snapped, "Get in the wings, now! Your scene is on."

They shuffled off, disappointed. Madame Giry turned back to Raoul.

"Why? What has happened? Do you know where Christine is? She has not been seen all afternoon. We had to use someone else in her role tonight."

"There is no time to explain!" Raoul's cheeks were flushed with anger and impatience. "You must take me there this instant!" How could she not understand that every minute they wasted, the Phantom could be taking Christine farther away?

"Monsieur, the show…I must watch my girls."

Raoul resisted the urge to violently shake her. "There is no time! Christine is hurt – badly, and the Phantom has taken her. I do not know where they are, and I need your help!"

"_Shh_, monsieur! The show!" She motioned out to the wings.

Raoul whispered, his voice a forced calm, "You must help me, Madame! I must find Christine before _he _does something to her! Take me to them."

Her eyes were wide, and she said sadly, "Monsieur, you would not make it down to his home – you would die before you reached the lake. I do not even dare go down there myself. Only _he_ knows the way."

Rage and hopelessness worked their way through him, and he closed his eyes momentarily. _Think_. He could see Christine on the ground, and the Phantom's face, drawn with concern. He picked her up and took her…to the white horse. Raoul's eyes snapped open immediately. Without a word, he left backstage and ran to the stables. His body was protesting loudly. He was still cold, and his mind and body were exhausted and famished. But he could not allow himself to stop.

The stable smelled strongly of hay and animals, but it was warm, and he was grateful for a just a few moments. He found a stable hand and asked impatiently,

"Was a white steed returned sometime today?"

"White steed?"

"Yes! He was taken out earlier today. Has he been returned at all? Have you seen him?"

"Well – no, monsieur, we only have eight of the eleven horses in right now. Have you seen the white one?"

Raoul turned away and slammed his fist into the wooden wall, clenching his teeth. _Where are you_?

----

_Cold_…_Voices – panicked and hurried_. _A burning sensation, and then something tugging_…_Something touching her hand_…_Warm, but still in pain_…_Pain_.

Pain.

Her eyes took a moment to force open. She could not seem to think right. Her body felt heavy and awkward. Slowly, her vision focused, and she found herself staring at a brightly-lit wooden ceiling. Sunlight was streaming in through a window located above her bed. Laboriously, she turned her head and saw a chair sitting next to the bed. A man was sitting in it, his face in his hands, and his dark hair bore a streak of light.

"Raoul…?" She found her mouth was dry and didn't seem to be working properly. The man's head shot up, and she saw the white half-mask. Immediately, her breath picked up. What was _he_ doing here? What was _she _doing here? Where was here? She slowly remembered the graveyard and the swordfight. And then there had been pain…pain that returned to her, merciless and biting.

"You – " she gasped, moving slightly and feeling her body scream when she did. "You – Phantom – what am I – !" She cut herself off with a shriek of pain, confused as to what was the cause. Tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes.

The Phantom stood suddenly, staring at her. She screamed again, writhing in agony as the injury sent waves of pain through her.

"Christine," he said, grabbing her hand. "Christine, hold still – calm down!"

She merely twisted away from him, and this caused her to squeal again. The Phantom heard the door open behind him, and he turned and saw the doctor and his wife entering. The doctor held a cruel-looking syringe. The Phantom stepped out of the way, trying to ignore Christine's shrieking. Madame Renard tore off the bedcovers and seized Christine's hands, shushing her, while the doctor reached for Christine's nightgown. Immediately understanding, the Phantom turned away and shut his eyes, hoping they would also shut out his hearing. But he still heard Christine, and Doctor Renard's snap of, "Hold her still!" and Madame Renard hushing Christine.

Christine gasped suddenly and then was unnaturally silent. The Phantom swallowed harshly and turned around. Madame Renard was fixing the bedcovers, pulling them back over Christine, whose features were relaxing slowly. Doctor Renard, holding a now-empty syringe, smiled sadly at the Phantom and said,

"She seems to have worked herself into hysterics. We gave her a sedative. I can't have her tearing her stitching now." There was a small moment of silence while he waited to see if the Phantom would respond; he did not. "Perhaps it would be best if you returned home and rested for a few hours. I know how uncomfortable that chair is. Please, Monsieur Andre, she will be in good hands."

The Phantom nodded curtly. "I shall consider this."

Once again, Doctor Renard's eyes flickered up to his mask, but he merely shooed his wife out of the room and left them alone once again. The Phantom returned to Christine's bedside and stared at her. She was sleeping again, relaxed and peaceful.

The mere _sight _of him had been enough to scare her and hurt her. His heart pounded savagely. "_Phantom _– !" Not Angel. No – that had disappeared. She would not call him Angel again. And when she woke up again, would she scream so much that they would inject her with drugs once more? Could she calm herself down enough to allow him to explain? Or would he always be something to be feared, to be reviled? He ran a hand down his face haggardly, feeling exhaustion tug at him. How could he leave her like this?

But she would need new clothes – this nightgown had obviously seen better days. And he needed clothes as well, fresh ones that weren't covered in blood. For a few minutes, he stood and watched her, burning her image into his mind. He pressed her hand gently and murmured,

"I will return soon, Christine. You are in good hands. Sleep well."

Finally, he forced himself to leave the room, leave the house, and emerge into the Parisian afternoon. He blinked, unused to the strong, gray sun, and quickly made for the Opera House. The white horse was gone – he did not expect to see it ever again. After all, he had left it in the middle of a street at night. So he walked to his home, hurrying, staying out of sight, thinking of Christine, Christine alone, Christine hurt, Christine frightened.

He couldn't remember much of his travels through the streets, nor of his time spent getting to his home through the Opera House. All he could think of was getting back as quickly as possible. Once in his home, he ripped off his own clothing and pulled on a fresh outfit. He then hurried to the Louis-Philippe bedroom and pulled out a few nightgowns, a shawl, and a light cotton gown that did not require a corset. After putting these in a small bag, he left. His trek to the surface began again. He hurried through the labyrinth of the corridors, clutching the bag tightly.

"_Christine_!"

A voice echoed through the maze. He paused immediately. Again, the call came.

"_Christine_!"

He recognized the voice, and he resisted the urge to sneer. Much too pointless…But, as he made to continue on his way, the voice called again.

"_Christine, where are you_?" It was said with a sob, and the Phantom paused again, his heart racing. The Viscount was wandering toward his death, he was sure. That would, perhaps, not be a bad thing. However, murdering the boy served no purpose other than to make himself feel better. And he would have to move a dead body, which was always uncomfortable.

But the Viscount was obviously looking for Christine. The Phantom could tell him that she was dead, but that would be stupid. When she was well, she would sing on the stage once again. With an angry sigh, he headed toward the Viscount's direction. The Phantom could tell Christine that he saved the Viscount's life. Yes; that would undoubtedly make her feel much better toward him.

The Viscount was running into dead-ends. The Phantom stopped, covered by the darkness, and whispered,

"What are you looking for?"

"_You_!" The Viscount stumbled around blindly, holding his hands out in front of him. "Where is Christine? What have you done with her?"

"If you follow my directions, I will tell you the way out. However, if you insist on your search down here, you will find nothing except a rope and short, sharp fall." The Phantom watched, with some amusement managing to kick in, as the young man ran around the corridor blindly, growling and mumbling under his breath.

"Christine is below the Opera House, isn't she? You monster! She needs medical care! Take me to her this instant!"

"Oh, don't worry about Christine. She is very much alive and is receiving the best medical care possible. In fact, I intend to return to her right now...Walk down this corridor, turn left, keeping walking straight until you pass three other halls, and then turn right. That will lead you out."

"It will lead me to my death!" snapped the Viscount. "You wish to kill me and then keep Christine all to yourself. You are a sick _creature_ – you don't deserve the title of man!"

The Phantom would not listen anymore. He left the Viscount wandering around the corridor, looking for him. When he emerged, night had settled, and he hurried to Doctor Renard's flat, anxious to see Christine. He knocked impatiently, and Madame Renard let him in. She was still wary of the masked man and watched him suspiciously as he made his way toward Christine.

"I'm afraid Doctor Renard is out," she finally said. "There was an emergency, and he has left."

The masked man didn't reply nor seem to care. He entered the bedroom and shut the door loudly. Madame Renard breathed a small sigh of relief and returned to her own room, where she sat and watched the small pistol that she had pulled out when her husband left.

The Phantom was relieved to see Christine, who seemed to be breathing much better. He touched her hand lightly and set the bag on the table.

"I've returned, Christine, with new clothing for you," he said, pulling up the chair. "Your Viscount was looking for you. I believe he will be quite a nuisance in the future."

Christine didn't respond – of course he didn't expect her to, she was sleeping. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair. The night would be long.


	4. Chapter 4

When Christine woke again, it was early in the morning. The sun was just barely coming up over the sill, and the Phantom had dozed most of the night. However, he watched Christine anxiously as her eyes fluttered open. She looked at him tiredly, and he stared back. Nothing was spoken for a few moments.

"Where am I?" she finally asked. Her voice was drawn and raspy.

"In the home of a good doctor," the Phantom said.

"What happened?"

"I – I took you to this house, and the doctor cleaned you up and helped you. You've been sleeping for days." It was strange to have a conversation with her. Before, their conversations had never been face-to-face, and when they were, they…didn't really speak to one another. But now, all the shades had been pulled away, and nothing was secret or mysterious anymore. She saw him, a man of flesh and blood, sitting before her, looking thin and very tired.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, his voice holding an edge of worry.

She closed her eyes again, sighing. "Not very much, but I think the sedative is starting to wear off."

"Would you like me to call the doctor?" he asked, beginning to become concerned.

She weakly waved her hand. "No. Not just yet. Give me a moment to compose myself."

After a moment of silence, he sighed and said, "Christine, I must tell you that…I told them that we are married."

Her eyes snapped open, and she looked at him, aghast and disgusted. "What? How dare you – !"

"Calm yourself, Christine," he said. "It was the simplest way. We won't be badgered with questions. They don't know what happened; I assume they believe it was an accident."

"It _wasn't _an accident?" she demanded, her eyes flashing.

"No – darling, that isn't what I meant. If we say that you were injured during the middle of a swordfight, that would lead to hundreds of questions. Christine, please, just do this until we are able to leave."

She was beginning to work herself up once again. "_Who are you_?" she said, venom creeping into her voice. "I don't know you at all! How dare you suggest that I would leave with you! I will send for Raoul right this moment, and _he _will take me. How could you possibly think that I would leave with you? You! You who have lied and kidnapped and…_murdered_ your way to become closer to me!" She cut herself off with a gasp of pain and whimpered as she placed a hand over her stomach.

The Phantom stared at her, and then, without a word, slid off his chair and knelt by her bedside. "Christine," he whispered, "I _love _you. I would do anything you asked of me! How can I prove to you that you can trust me?"

There was silence. "Please get the doctor," she finally said. The Phantom, his heart dropping, nodded and stood.

Christine, her anger cooling, watched his retreating back. Perhaps it wasn't necessary to lash out at him so harshly, but she could not bring herself to feel sorry for what she had said: it was all truth. Did she _really _know the man behind the Angel and Phantom? Everything he said to her could have been (and probably was) a complete lie. Now that she knew about his façade, all of his obvious flaws came into play, and it was hard to grasp the thought that her perfect Angel, sent from Heaven, had faults like she did.

The doctor was a small, boisterous man with white hair and spectacles, and he was cheerful enough. He shooed the Phantom from the room and looked at her stitching. When Christine finally saw it, she couldn't help but let out a terrified shriek. It was a hideous sight. A nearly-perfect line ran diagonally from a few inches above her naval to a few inches below. Black stitches held her together, grotesque and outlined with red. She began to breathe heavily, which aggravated her sutures. Pain wracked its way through her, and she groaned, feeling tears come to her eyes. Nothing passed through her conscious mind except the fact that she was hurting

There was a very sharp jabbing at her hip, and she gasped loudly. Then, as the pain had come, it went away, leaving a wonderful numbness. She closed her eyes slowly, calming herself. After a few moments, she looked back at the doctor. He explained that it was not as serious as it looked. She had been very lucky in that none of her vital internal organs were pierced. Also, there should be no infection and her recovery should be quick and smooth.

"How long until I am well?" she asked. The pain-relieving injection left her feeling slightly sleepy, but she forced her mind to remain focused.

"It will take a month or so until you can no longer feel anything. I will need to regularly check the stitching to see if your wound has healed properly or not."

He gave her practical medical advice, such as avoiding strenuous movement for the first few weeks, drinking a lot of fluids and getting plenty of sleep.

"Being well everywhere else will help you heal much faster," he said, with a kindly smile.

Christine managed to smile back. The doctor checked his pocket watch, stood, and said that he was really very sorry, but he had an appointment. His wife would help Christine with all of her necessities.

"Your husband is waiting fretfully outside," said Doctor Renard. "Should I let him in?"

"No!" she said, then amended quickly: "No – I will see him after the…after." He could not see her in this drugged, weak state, even though he had seen her fall prey to his voice countless times. It was a more powerful narcotic than anything else, and she gave in to it easily.

Doctor Renard smiled again and left. A woman entered, tall and flat, and said to Christine, gently, but a little less-kindly than her husband,

"I'm sure you wish to bathe. I'll help you with whatever you need."

When Christine attempted to sit up, she let out a small shriek of pain and quickly laid back down, breathing heavily. "It still hurts," she said simply, closing her eyes. Madam Renard nodded. "That is to be expected," she said. "With your amount of stitches and considering the place they are, I'm sure any kind of movement is somehow painful. Are you able to breathe through your pain for just a few moments?"

Christine nodded, still unsure, and she allowed Madam Renard to help her to her feet in such a way that her torso was as little involved as possible. It was strange and slightly awkward, but it was not nearly as painful as simply sitting up.

Her legs feeling deadened, Christine hobbled to the door tiredly, supported by Madam Renard.

"Wait!" Christine suddenly commanded, staring at the door. "Is he – is my husband – on the other side? I…I don't want him to worry when he sees me. Perhaps it's best that he sits in another room while I bathe."

Madam Renard looked at her curiously but said nothing. She then slipped out of the door and had a few words with the man on the other side. Christine suddenly felt weak and leaned against the door. He was here, having an actual conversation with someone other than herself. It was almost bizarre to think that he could retain simple polite social skills. After a few minutes, Madam Renard reentered.

"It took a few minutes, but he's left now."

The two women made their way to the bathing room slowly. Christine kept a hand over her stitching, trying her best not to twist her torso when she walked. She felt frail and pathetic. Finally, they entered the bathroom, and she was able to rest slightly.

It was modestly furnished with necessities; nothing there was extravagant. Madam Renard began preparing Christine's bath, while the young woman in question listened carefully to the door, nervous about the idea that the Phantom would come back into the hallway.

After a few more painful minutes, Christine was situated in the bathwater, reveling in the warm water that refreshed her skin. She looked at her stomach and fingered the wound slightly, feeling the bumps run under her fingertips. Who could have done this to her? Was it Raoul – dear, sweet Raoul who would have never harmed her intentionally? Or was it the Phantom, who professed to love her with all of his soul and yet possessed such a temperament that made physical abuse seem possible? It was unintentional, she knew, but she did not know whose blade had pierced her. Did _they _know? Was Raoul not by her side because he knew that he had hurt her like this? Or was the Phantom here because he did it – determined to see that she get well once again?

"Your husband is very concerned for you," Madam Renard said, folding some extra towels. Christine looked at her, silent. "He only left your bedside when forced to do so. He hasn't eaten once, and I don't believe he's slept at all." Christine could practically _hear _the questions in Madam Renard's voice: _Why does he wear a mask_? _What happened to you_?

But Christine said nothing to answer these, choosing to watch the water droplets run down her arm and onto her fingers. She then asked a question of her own. "When will I be well enough to leave?"

"Quite possibly tonight," said Madam Renard. Christine felt chills go through her. "My husband will check on you once more and then give your husband instructions on changing your bandages; it is a very simple task, so you do not need to be worried. He will also be instructed on how to give you narcotics, should you need any. In a few weeks, you will come back here for a check-up. And, after another few weeks, you may come back to have your stitches removed."

"Oh," said Christine softly. Where would the Phantom take her? Would he kidnap her and force her back down to his underground lair? Did he think that _he _would care for her – change her bandages and poke a needle into her bare hip? _Well, if he did, he was certainly mistaken_! She would do everything herself, anything that meant not having to rely upon the masked man.

A few more minutes in the tub resulted in fresh, pink skin and a much better mood. Christine was assisted in pulling on a cotton gown that the Phantom had, apparently, provided for her. The drug that was injected into her system was pleasantly numbing by now, and she went back to the bedroom. Tonight, she might be able to see Raoul.

The door opened slowly, and the Phantom entered, holding a steaming bowl. She did not look at him, taking the bowl with stubborn silence. It was filled with a passable broth, and she emptied the bowl with little difficulty. Her stomach now appeased, she was able to focus on the events at hand – the most prominent being the masked man who stood beside her.

"Madam Renard said I should be able to leave soon," she finally said, staring at her hands.

"Yes, I know," the Phantom replied softly. "I intend to have us leave tonight."

"I wish to be returned to the Opera House," she said pointedly. "Madam Giry will be able to help me with my medical needs."

He did not respond.

After another moment of silence, Christine asked, slightly hesitantly, "What were you doing there?"

"Excuse me?"

"What were you doing there – at my father's gravesite? I…I want to know why you followed me. I want to know the _real _reason behind all of this. I want to know everything! I don't want to be confused by you anymore. I can't stand this – this not knowing. I was not even sure if you were real or not until I saw you attack Raoul. You are so ethereal, as if you are not human, but I see you sitting there now, right before me. Tell me! Tell me everything!"

There was a slightly stunned silence. Christine felt herself grow warm. She had only meant to ask one question, but her true inquiry came out quickly and unrestrainedly once she had dared to dream it.

His long fingers came and brushed her forearm slightly, a gentle, almost affectionate gesture. "I will tell you these things…but not here, Christine. I will tell you if you agree to come back with me – come back without force."

She then looked at him, staring, disbelieving. "You will tell me…and then you will never let me go."

He shook his head. "I must let you go, Christine. Your stitches need tending, and I do not think that you are very apt to have me care for them."

While watching him with a scrutinizing glare, Christine finally brought forth the question that she had longed to ask for years but was too afraid of the response. She now timidly said,

"May I ask you one question now?"

His lips thinned. "What is it?"

"I want to know – I want to know what your real name is."

She watched his eyes and was relieved when there was no trace of anger in them. Their soft gold rested on her, and he finally said quietly,

"Erik."


	5. Chapter 5

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* * *

Harsh sunlight hit his eyes. He winced and sat up, blinking back the light. His entire body felt leaden and groggy, and he moaned as a headache attacked him fiercely.

The curtains in Raoul de Chagny's manor bedroom had been thrust open by his older brother, who stood by Raoul's bedside and watched his younger brother cover his eyes with a shaking hand.

"I haven't seen you for three days," said Philippe, his voice cool.

Raoul swallowed thickly and garbled out, "Where am I? What happened?" His voice was dry and rasping.

"I'm not surprised you don't recognize your own room. Do you know who I am?" The impatience in Philippe's voice was apparent now. Although usually patient and permissive with his brother, Philippe could not help but be angry at Raoul, who had spent days absent from the house.

"Water – please, Philippe," Raoul begged, holding out his hand. Philippe sighed and took a glass from the bedside table, on which rested a cooling breakfast. Raoul drank hurriedly, feeling the water soothe his mouth and throat. He still felt congested, and his head hurt fiercely, but his mouth was now one thing less to worry about. Spotting the breakfast, Raoul took it and began to eat voraciously, his mind spinning with past events.

"Are you going to explain anything?" Philippe asked, sitting down on a nearby chair and watching him. "Will you explain that gash on your arm?"

Raoul looked to see that his injury had been bandaged neatly, and he looked up at Philippe. "I…it's quite a fantastic story," muttered Raoul, drinking more water. "You wouldn't believe it."

"You will tell me anyway," snapped Philippe. "I've been looking all over for you, and I want to know why."

Finally, Raoul sighed and looked sadly at his half-eaten breakfast before setting it aside. Slowly, Raoul told his brother all that had transpired, ignoring the reactions or occasional small comment. He was reluctant to tell Philippe about Christine's injury, but it was absolutely necessary, and so he did, with pain in his stomach to re-ponder the question if he had done that tragedy.

"You cut her open?" interrupted Philippe, aghast.

"No!" clipped Raoul quickly. "Well…maybe. There is no way of telling. It could have been either one of us. I will always remember her white face, as if she couldn't believe that it was her own blood coming from her. And then she fell to the snow. There was so much blood…so much red. It was hot and everywhere. The Phantom picked her up before I could even touch her and jumped on my horse. They were gone before I could even try to get her."

"And so you've been chasing them all over Paris?" asked Philippe.

"I wish I had," sighed Raoul, laying back down and closing his eyes. "I have no idea where they might be. My three days were spent searching the Opera House. I remember walking, and I was tired, and there was someone…"

"You practically fainted into the arms of a sceneshifter," said Philippe. "He said he found you right outside the cellars. After they found out who you were, I was alerted, and you've been here and sleeping for nearly twelve hours."

"_Twelve _hours?" said Raoul, appalled. He shifted in the bed and sat up. "I have to go. This is another day completely lost, and I still do not know where Christine could be." Raoul stood up, but he did not walk very far. Blood rushed to his head, and he collapsed back onto the bed, clutching his forehead.

"You're only lucky that you suffered from a low fever and a bad cold," said Philippe, watching him lay back down with an agonized groan. "You haven't eaten or slept in three days, and you've been wandering around drafty Opera House cellars. I doubt you'll be moving anytime soon."

"But I have to go," muttered Raoul. "I have to find Christine…"

"Get some sleep," said Philippe, standing. "I will talk to the gendarmes. They will probably find her much faster than you ever could, Raoul. I'm sure by tomorrow she will be safely in a hospital."

No matter how much he wanted to protest, Raoul was unable to draw enough energy to say something with force, and so a weak, frail comment of, "No, I have to go myself," came out. Philippe chuckled lightly and then left. Raoul rolled on his side and closed his eyes. _Christine, where are you_?

With some trepidation, Christine watched as Doctor Renard checked her stitches, then her pulse, and then looked into her eyes and mouth. Half of her sincerely wished that she would pass his examination and be able to leave, but another half was fearful because that meant having to leave with the Phantom. _Erik_. Would he be violent toward her, as he had so often been? She shivered slightly as she remembered his past violent fits – the night she removed his mask, for instance.

"Are you cold?" the doctor asked kindly. She shook her head quickly.

After a few more minutes, the doctor stepped away and allowed Christine to become straightened before letting the Phantom into the room. Doctor Renard then took him to a corner, and they spoke quietly with one another for a very long time. Christine tried her very hardest to hear what they were saying, but their low timbre was hard to decipher. The doctor was making motions with his hands, and the Phantom was watching observantly, nodding and then listening. Christine felt herself blush slightly.

Finally, the two men separated. The Phantom remained, while the doctor exited.

"He says that you are well enough to leave tonight," the Phantom said quietly, watching Christine's reaction. "He simply advises that you have bed rest for another week or so until you heal properly."

Christine nodded, clamping her mouth shut. The Phantom said nothing, but stepped out of the room momentarily. And then, both men entered once again. The doctor smiled at Christine and took her hand. His were small and warm.

"It was an honor to help you, Madam," said Doctor Renard. "I will see you very soon."

Christine smiled back. "Thank you for saving my life," she said quietly. "Thank your wife, if you would please."

"Before you go, I wonder if you need one more small narcotic," the doctor said, a slight crease appearing between his white eyebrows. "The journey might be more arduous than you expect. Your husband has informed me that you do not live far away, but I know it would make the ride more bearable."

Christine thought of the carriage ride, then the long walk down the cellars, and she nodded tiredly. The Phantom left momentarily while the doctor administered the shot, and the numbing sensation returned to Christine, who sighed. The doctor pressed her hand once more before leaving the room. The Phantom reentered, carrying a small bag. He stood by Christine, looking down.

"Are you ready now?" he asked her.

"Yes." She was obliged to allow him to help her out of the bed and shuffle down the hallway, her legs deadened from little use. Before they walked out of the warm front room, the Phantom draped a shawl over her shoulders, and she accepted it gratefully. The cold air outside was biting, and the carriage was not much warmer. Christine moaned slightly as she climbed inside. The numbing drugs didn't work well when she applied direct pressure to the injury. The Phantom climbed inside after her hurriedly and tapped the top of the carriage, which jerked off quickly.

There was silence. Christine was aware that he was watching her closely, and it made her feel slightly uncomfortable. The narcotics, however, had her feeling sleepy once again, and so she closed her eyes tiredly. She wondered where Raoul was, what he was doing, if he was thinking of her. Maybe she should ask her masked companion, but she was still afraid of his wrath.

The carriage stopped, and she opened her eyes to see that they were at the Opera House. The Phantom climbed out first and then offered his hand to her. She took it, relieved to feel the leather of his gloves separating their skin. When they had finally stepped away, they watched the carriage trundle away.

"May I be allowed to carry you?" the Phantom suddenly asked. He sounded highly defensive, as if he didn't care what she said. Christine, slightly offended, looked at him.

"Why do you offer?" she asked.

"I don't want you to tear your stitching," he snapped. "The doctor advised that you be off your feet as much as possible, and we have quite a ways to go."

"Well, then, I probably shouldn't be standing! I shouldn't move at all, then, should I? If this is what 'the doctor advises!'" Their tempers were now rising quickly, both of them tired and irritable from the unfair treatment they had given to the other.

"You think I would lie to you about something like this?" he demanded. "I would never touch you without your consent!"

"_Ha_!" snarled Christine contemptuously. "Our history would prove otherwise, monsieur! Do you remember when you _struck _me for taking off your mask?"

"You took my mask off!" he nearly shouted. "You took away my one piece of dignity, ripped it off to satisfy your childish greed. Do you think you had the right? You never considered me when you took it off – you were selfish and immature! And – all things considered – I couldn't care less if I carried you down or not. You will simply have to go get new stitches tomorrow. Do not cry when you start to bleed again."

"How _dare _you!" shrieked Christine. "How dare you! Do you think that this is my fault? You should be on your knees, begging for my forgiveness! I was nearly killed, practically cut in half during a stupid, childish squabble between two grown men. _You _could have done it! Also, I demand that you carry me down! You should be ashamed to do anything less."

"_Fine_!" barked the masked man. He swept her up into his arms and marched into the Opera House. Both of them seethed silently. As they walked and cooled, they both wanted to break the anger between them, but their pride crushed the words that came to them.

The Phantom set Christine into the boat. "Thank you," she snapped spitefully. He did not reply, merely pushed off the little boat. Where once the underground lake had been so mysterious, with enchanted candelabras and statues, now it was just dark and cold, and Christine curled closer to herself. Her hand crept back to find the hem of Erik's cloak, and she clutched it, hoping he wouldn't notice. He pretended not to.

They bumped gently onto the shore, and he stepped out deftly, helping her to her feet. She whimpered slightly and placed a hand on her stomach.

"In a few days, you will need your bandages changed. However, I want you here where I will be able to monitor your health much more easily. My medical knowledge is not limited."

He led her through his underground house. Christine couldn't help but taking in the sights once again, magical and wondrous and darkly seductive. He led her to the small bedroom, where he lit the candles quickly and pulled down the bedcovers.

"I will get something for you," he said simply, closing the door behind him. She shivered slightly, standing in the middle of the room. In a few days, she would be able to leave. A few days would pass quickly, and it would satisfy his concern for her health. In the meantime, he would answer her questions and the mystery of the Phantom of the Opera and the Angel of Music would be solved. She mouthed his name quietly to herself. _Erik_. _Erik_.

_He _entered after knocking softly, bearing a small supper for her.

"You should be in bed resting," he said, raising his seen eyebrow at her. She sat down obediently and accepted the food.

"Is there anything else you need?" he asked politely. She shook her head, absorbed in her meal. "I will leave you for the night, then. Sleep well, Christine."

"Good night…Erik."


	6. Chapter 6

It was the music that woke her. _Music_! How many days had passed since its sweet caress overtook her? How long had it been since she heard _his _music? His agonized, tragic, worthy music had soothed her more than once through the years, and now it calmed her once again when she woke to find herself in that bedroom, with its small chest of drawers and the little bright painting that hung on the stone wall. She lied in the bed, listening. There was some fear of moving; if he heard her, he would surely stop his playing to come check on her.

She recognized the piece he was playing. It was a duet that he had written long ago, a song she had sung as a youth and delighted in. The simple phrase was repeated over and over, with variations, but its meaning was still as poignant today as it was all those years ago.

_Musica Dei donum optimi_…

When the piece ended, she found that there was a smile on her lips. Slightly alarmed, she let go of it at once. Without much delay, the Phantom started on another piece. This one was melancholy – almost discouraging – and she heard his voice join its despair and plea. It was the simple Greek phrase.

_Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison._

Before he had even started a third phrase, she found herself crying and joining in his longing for the mercy of God. How could she not be moved to compassion for that unearthly, angelic voice? All of her own pain was completely gone, and she dwelt in his heaven for those precious moments. Throughout her years, her Angel of Music had taught her the true meaning of music. Its amazing ability to move and encourage had always been something unfamiliar to her, but, as she listened to his, she felt her very soul lift closer toward a higher place. The countless operas seemed pathetic and meaningless when compared to Erik's unearthly world of music. She was inspired and filled with light as he continued his song.

It was all so very unfair that he could create the polar opposite music. She had heard his dark pieces, and she was absolutely terrified of their power. They dragged her down to a cruel, unforgiving place, and blackness knifed at her insides. It fascinated her in a disgusting way, and she would be ashamed later, as all her life she was striving to become closer to light.

"Christine?"

She gasped in surprise and looked at the door. He stood, watching her curiously. She was not aware that he had stopped playing. The music still hung in the air, like a scent.

"Are you crying?" he asked gently.

"No," she sniffed. "No, it's nothing."

"Is it the pain? Would you like something?"

"I'm fine," she said hastily, wiping away lingering tears. "I'm not in pain."

"Why are you crying, then?" His question was not rudely insistent; he sounded genuinely concerned.

"Your…that piece was very beautiful," she said quietly.

He shrugged gracefully. "It is an older one, and it was written in a rather depressing setting." They were both silent for a moment, reminiscing, and then he continued, "Would you like to eat? I've something prepared for you, if you are hungry."

"I would like it, though I should much prefer to eat out of the bed. Please allow me a few minutes. I will come out shortly."

"Are you quite certain you can manage?" he said. She nodded, and he took leave of her. Changing was difficult. She held her breath through the sharp pain as she gingerly removed her nightdress and slipped on a new one, fingering the bandages for a moment before pulling the sleeves on. After finally managing to get everything buttoned and fastened, she wanted to sit and rest, but that would pressure her stitches, so she merely leaned against the wall, pressing her flushed cheek into the cool stone. Here she was again, preparing herself to leave, finding a man seated at a magnificent organ. Before she was momentarily crippled in mind, still drunk on his mystery and voice; now she was impaired physically. With a strengthening breath, she stepped out of her small sanctuary and into his kingdom, trailing her fingers along the wall for support and guidance.

She came to find him comparing two pieces of paper with a frown. He caught sight of her and quickly set the papers aside, saying,

"Just over here, Christine." He led her to a small dining table and pulled the chair for her. With her hand on her stomach and a slight hiss, she settled herself into the chair. A passable meal was set before her, and she ate it, uncomfortably aware that he was watching her closely for any signs of discomfort. When he took her plate away after she was finished, she asked,

"What happens now?"

"You will rest here. Tomorrow morning, I will take you to our excellent Madam Giry, who will change your bandages and look for any problems."

She nodded her agreement, though a small thought nagged at the back of her mind. _Raoul_. She had not seen him in days. What was he doing? What was he thinking?

The Phantom offered her his arm, and she accepted it, letting him help her get to her feet. He led her to the lush couch, Christine leaning against him and walking at a slow, timid pace. He gently eased her onto the seat, allowing her to clutch his sleeves for further support until she was completely situated.

"What can I do for you now?" he asked, gazing at her. "Books? Music? Stories?"

There was a silence, and she softly said, "None of those things. I want us to talk. We've never spoken properly before, and yet we've talked to each other for years."

He looked at her blankly, as if unable to understand her words.

"What is there to say?" he finally asked, his voice sounding strained.

"We don't know each other," she said. "Even after years, you don't know me, and I don't know you. And…no matter where this ends…I should very much like to – understand you, Erik."

"No, I don't think so," he said gravely, turning away. "You would not like what you hear, and you would never understand."

"You think that because you've never given me a chance to do either of those things!" she said earnestly. "Except for my voice, you have always told me things I wanted to hear! You have never told me true things about yourself. You do not know if I would understand or not. I am not as simple as you think!"

"I don't think you're simple!" he snapped, turning around. "You have proven to be anything _but_."

"You do not think that I _deserve _to know some truths?" she asked. "You promised me! You said that if I came willingly, you would answer my questions!"

There was a small silence. "Yes, I did promise, didn't I?" he mused darkly. "I do not enjoy people backing out of promises, and I must imagine that others feel the same way."

She pointed to a small chair that rested opposite of the couch, and he sat down on it hesitantly, eyeing her, expecting her to make some sort of mockery out of all of this. However, she was watching him quite seriously, toying with her bottom lip between her teeth. He watched it for a few minutes, fascinated.

"Why did you follow me to my father's grave?" Christine suddenly asked.

The Phantom automatically replied, monotonously, "I wanted to make sure you were safe."

Her brow knitted heavily. "I doubt that. Even if it was true, you certainly did _not _do a good job!" She motioned to her stomach feebly. He did not reply, merely looked at her, and she could feel a bit of frustration creeping inside of her. However, this could have been one of her only times to _really _speak to…Erik, and she would not lose the opportunity. She calmed herself and asked,

"Why did you sing to me at the gravesite?"

"I wanted to comfort you," he said. "You were upset."

"Why did you attack Raoul?"

"He destroyed the reverence of the moment. I was, understandably, upset. Perhaps I overreacted – perhaps not." There was no emotion in his voice, and Christine had a harder time keeping her temper under control.

"What did you want the first night you brought me down here?"

"Nothing."

"What did you plan to do?"

"Nothing."

The silence was tangible. Christine's frustration peaked, and she wanted to cry again.

"Why won't you tell me the truth?" she whispered miserably. "Why is it so hard to trust me?"

"Trust you?" he suddenly hissed spitefully. "Trust _you_? After everything, Christine, everything! After everything I have done for you – the _years _I've spent on your training, your preparing to take Paris, your perfection – you betray me openly for all of the heavens to see! And I was there, in the heavens. I watched you and that _boy_. I heard everything. What was it, the one line I enjoyed in particular? Oh yes – 'The very sight of him fills me with dread I've never known! How could I ever think of returning to him?' But still I followed you, Christine. I followed you like a devoted slave, I still loved you, still worshiped you. I went to the Masquerade, intent on speaking with you somehow, yet that incorrigible Viscount came between us yet again! I'm sick of having to fight for my right to see you and sing with you, tired of seeing your lover prowling the Opera House and trying to spy on me. But perhaps this is best, Christine. Perhaps when I return you above ground tomorrow, your lover will find you and whisk you off to the best medical facility possible in England. I will remain here, forgotten, which is all for the better. And I will fade from your mind gradually. How unfair that you shall haunt my every waking moment!"

She sat, her mouth slightly agape, staring at him. This was the most she had ever heard him say, and, in it, there were too many answers to count. She realized she had paled when he told her he had seen the rooftop scene, but color was returning.

"We are speaking of trust?" she asked, her voice trembling and then becoming stronger as she went on. "I trusted you! You were my Angel of Music, sent by my father! You pretended to be a divine being for years, and I trusted your every whim and word. Everything you said was true. I would have believed you if you had told me the world was flat. How was I to know any better? You trapped me in the Opera House and forced me to my music, even when I wanted to go with the other girls to the café down the street. I grew up with few friends. You isolated me from everyone, intent on snatching me away when I was at my most vulnerable point. When Raoul was in my life once again, you couldn't stand it! You could not behave like a civilized gentleman, and so _you kidnapped me_! It is strange, really, that you stole me from the Opera House, and yet I remained there. I don't believe you will ever really want me. You want a mindless singing automaton who will obey your every command. Well, I am not that! I am a real person with feelings and desires. I _like _going to the café down the street! Raoul was my freedom. How could I refuse him? And you scared me so badly. You never gave me a chance to comprehend anything. I was simply taken down and then up again so quickly that it seemed almost like a dream. And if I am indeed taken away to England tomorrow, know that I will never forget you, because you have forced yourself into every one of my memories!"

When she finished, he sprang from the chair and stared at her imperiously. He then stalked over to his bedroom door and said coldly, "I hope you enjoyed our _talk_." He walked into his room and slammed the door so hard that it felt as if the very Opera House shook.

She most certainly did not regret their conversation. "Enjoyed" was not the right word, but she realized that many things she had been hiding had finally been revealed, and it was the same for him. How long had he deluded himself into thinking that she loved him? Of course she loved him as an Angel. What good girl does not love all angels? But as a man – a real man with a heart and earthly feelings and a mask? Could she ever bring herself to care for him as a person and not as an Angel? And could he ever accept her as anything except the perfect little Christine that always presented herself to lessons promptly and always practiced her scales?

Sometime during her thoughts, she became aware that the scarred region was pounding dully. Not long after, the pain worsened. The pain relievers were wearing off. She bit her lip slightly and closed her eyes, wincing and doubling over slightly as her wound gave a particularly nasty throb. A moan escaped. Where were the narcotics? If they were in front of her, she would attempt to administer a shot to herself, but she had not seen the Phantom take any. However, _he_ would know.

"Erik?" she whispered to the empty room. There was no answer. "Erik," she groaned loudly, laying back on the couch and pressing a hand over her eyes. "Erik!"

He finally entered the room, spotting her and immediately rushing to her side. "What happened?" he asked urgently. "Did you tear your stitching? What is it?"

"I need…I need a sedative. It hurts…"

"Of course, Christine, of course. Allow me a minute." He left, and she sank deeper into the small couch, closing her eyes against a new onslaught of pain. He returned soon, carrying a small syringe. However, when he got to her side, he stopped, awkwardly holding it and staring at her. Opening her eyes, she saw his uncertainty and muttered,

"Bring me some scissors."

He obeyed without question, and she took them from him with trembling hands. Only doing as minimal damage as she could, Christine cut through the several layers of clothing to find her bare hip. There was a small hole wide enough for the syringe to get through, and she sighed as she finished. The Phantom slowly inserted the syringe through the small openings, closing his eyes slightly as he felt the needle go into her skin. She gasped loudly and then waited for the relief. He watched her squirm for a few minutes and then slowly relax, sighing as she sank deeply into the small couch, closing her eyes.

The drugs made her tired; he gently picked her up, with no murmuring protest from her, and carried her to her room, where he set her down on the soft bed. No matter what she said to him, he would still find it difficult to return her the next morning.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for the reviews. I really do appreciate them. :) **

* * *

Philippe had lied. Raoul discovered this two days later when he was well enough to crawl miserably out of bed. He joined Philippe for a late breakfast and gloomily played with his eggs while Philippe read the paper.

"Any news?" Raoul asked, somewhat hopefully.

"They are showing _Don Carlos_ tonight," said Philippe from behind the paper. "Are you well enough to attend? If not, we could always attend another night. After all, it is painfully long."

"I'm not talking about opera," snapped Raoul. "I'm talking of Christine. Have they found her yet?"

There was an uncomfortable silence. Raoul understood quickly; he knew what would happen if he entrusted something like this to Philippe. Without a word, Raoul left the table and readied himself, his head pounding horribly. Philippe tried to stop him as he left the house, but Raoul shook him off with a curtly-placed comment and proceeded to go to the Opera House.

He was beginning to despise the entire thing – from its gaudy exterior to its grandiose foyer. The lustrous marble and gold began to tire him. He longed for the simplicity of Christine's company, her laugh, her amiable chatter. The mere thought of her spurred him quickly, and he located the ballet mistress. She was giving a stern lecture to the little ballet tarts, and Raoul waited impatiently until they cleared the room for rehearsal. Madam Giry made to join them until Raoul stopped her.

"Viscount," Madam Giry said, looking suddenly tired when she spotted him.

"Madam," he said, meekly and beseechingly, "I beg of you. I must know where Christine is. I feel as if my very life depends upon it."

Madam Giry sighed and said, "Follow me." She led him to a quiet hallway, where he watched her intently as she spoke.

"He brought her up yesterday morning. Yes, she is alive! And well, I should add. I do not see the harm in telling you this, if only to ease your mind and allow you some peaceful rest. He brought her to the surface so that she might be examined by the theatre doctor and have her bandages changed. He would never allow himself to do any of this, nor would she allow him to see her like that. He returned for her that evening. She told me he would come. She simply disappeared from the bed in which she was resting."

"You let him take her _again_?" demanded Raoul. "Madam, you do not know what goes on in that hell of his! She is trapped and physically weak – how honorable is he when he is willing to steal her twice?"

Madam Giry was silent, the corners of her thin lips pulled down. "She did not seem particularly upset when she told me she was to return with him. I do not think she fears going with him, nor does she fear what he will do. Not anymore, at least."

"She will be returning, then?" Raoul asked anxiously. "She must come back up if what you say is, indeed, true."

"Yes, certainly she will be back," Madam Giry said. "She told me that he will bring her up in three days, which is now two days. I know that nothing will keep you from seeing her, and so I will not try to stop you. _He_, however, will not be pleased to see you near her."

"I do not care about him," said Raoul waspishly. "I must see Christine with my own eyes."

"You shall have to wait two days," said Madam Giry. "And now, Viscount, if you will excuse me, I must see to rehearsal."

----

Two days. Two long, treacherous days. Raoul wandered through the manor, moping, thinking, unseeing of everything and everyone. Philippe dragged him to the Opera the night before the blessed morning, but Raoul was distracted and uninterested. How was he to care of Elisabeth's and Carlos's love tragedy when he himself was in the midst of one? It was as if the Phantom was King Philip and he was Don Carlos – forever to love Elisabeth, his Christine. And would his ending be as untimely and as strange as Don Carlos's? Would he have to leave Philip and Elisabeth together in their ultimate happiness?

He did not sleep the night before, his mind twisted and agonized. What if he was to see Christine and she rejected him? Had the Phantom twisted her mind so completely that she was no longer able to see Raoul's love for her? Tortured images ran through his mind – of them singing, kissing, touching, and he clenched his teeth in frustration.

When the pale morning came, he hurriedly crawled out of his mussed bed and dressed quickly. Should the Phantom bring her early and then take her before he arrived, Raoul was not sure that he would have a chance to see Christine again. Before the household was fully aware, Raoul was out of the house on his way to the Opera.

Most people had not come in for work yet, so Raoul watched carefully for Madam Giry, ignoring the others who slowly trickled in. When she was finally spotted, accompanied by her blonde-haired daughter, Raoul was quickly by her side. Madam Giry sighed once again and simply motioned for him to accompany her.

"I wish to speak to her before anything is done," Raoul said quickly. "If I allow her time for her necessary medical treatment, he might take her before I get a chance."

Madam Giry did not reply to this comment, but she said, "She will be in this room soon, sometime after I have finished my first lesson, which will be an hour long. I suggest you wait outside until I return."

Raoul did not move from his spot. Once, however, he tried to enter the room but found the door locked. Of course. The Phantom thrived under locked doors and secret passageways. When Madam Giry returned, the door opened easily under her hand, as he knew it would. He was a disturbingly gifted magician, and Raoul feared him much more because of it.

Christine – _Christine!_ – was lying in a small bed, watching a wall with something of a dazed look on her face. Raoul rushed to her side with a small cry, kneeling and seizing her hand.

"Christine," he said, pressing her palm to his lips. "Christine, I was so worried; you do not know how worried I was!"

"Raoul?" Christine said, almost as if struggling to recognize him. "Raoul, what are you doing here?"

"I've come here for you, Christine. Why are you crying?"

"Am I?" she said distractedly. "I've cried so many times over the last few days, I suppose that I do not notice it much anymore."

"I swear I'll never let him take you back," Raoul promised. "You'll never have to cry again."

"No, they are not tears of fright or pain!" said Christine seriously. "Oh, Raoul, you cannot begin to imagine what happens under the Opera House. Erik is more than I could have ever dreamed him to be!"

"Erik?"

"The Phantom – his name is Erik. Odd, isn't it? What a simple name for such a man! And I'm not finished learning. I must pry him for every single detail. He is very reluctant to tell me much, but, when he does, I seem to start to cry. Perhaps that's why he does not like speaking about such things with me. He always said that my tears cause him more sorrow than I will be ever capable of feeling in a lifetime. And the music, Raoul! Such glorious, heart-wrenching music. Some pieces that he has played for me seem to come directly from Heaven itself. I always end up crying during those, too. I wonder how he cannot be moved to a single tear from some of his most beautiful pieces, but one word from me can destroy his resolve. This does not pain you to hear, does it, Raoul? You must understand! There is no curtain of mystery draped over my eyes. What is there now is the naked truth, a stark reality that somehow seems just as romantic as his fantasy. How could I ever describe it to you?"

The silence from Raoul was pressing. He stared at her, almost horrified.

"What has he done to you?" he breathed. "Christine, you told me that he terrified you beyond belief, that he was an insane criminal that lurked underneath the Opera House. And now you…you speak as if you are infatuated with him." His voice was sullen now. "I've been looking for you for a week; if he is as kind as you say he is, he wouldn't allow you to send me a note telling me that you were _alive_? I scoured every room of this Opera House searching for you to find that you've been dallying with a monster who tried to kill me!"

"It's not like that, Raoul," Christine said beseechingly. "It isn't like that at all. Can you not understand? Questions I've had for ten long years are being answered in as many days! I cannot turn away now that so many mysteries are being solved under my very hands. He plays his music for me and answers questions – that is all! Raoul, he is so terribly concerned for my health that he entrusts my care to no one but himself, which is why he insists on keeping me in his little house."

"Oh, he is a doctor now, too?" said Raoul nastily, his temper rising. His reunion with Christine was not going on as he planned, and to find that she was actually _enjoying _her time under the Opera House scathed his affection. "I must admit he has a very impressive repertoire of skills. I imagine it is very romantic down there, with a filthy lake eating away at the stone walls of the house and no sunlight to ever pierce the windows – assuming there are windows at all. And he must charm you endlessly! Yes, I could imagine so, with a voice like the devil's and a face to match! How happy you must be, Christine!"

Christine stared at him, her eyes wide and tearful. "You don't mean that," she whispered sadly.

"But I do!" he snapped, rising to his feet quickly. "How do you expect me to react when you tell me that all of my effort was wasted? I haven't slept in days! I've worried myself out of my mind for you! I starved myself looking for you, and here you tell me thank you very much, Raoul, but you really shouldn't have gone to all that trouble, I'm fine now, and I've been having a delightful time with _Erik_!"

He spat out the last word and, in response, there was a loud _bang _that seemed to come from the opposite side of the walls. Both grew quiet, listening for any further sounds, but none came.

"What do you want me to say?" Christine demanded, staring up at him. "Would you like me to tell you that I've spent my days cowering away from him? I thought you would be happy that I was well! You haven't asked me once about my health. Would you like it if I told you that he screamed at me and scared me and threatened me? Well, he didn't! He has been very civil and very gentlemanlike toward me, which is more than I can say about you! He is not much different than you, Raoul! He wants what any other man would want, but his entire life has been a struggle to get it. I've known him for ten years. He was my Angel of Music – !"

"_He is not an Angel, Christine_!" Raoul suddenly shouted, grabbing her arm. "How long can you delude yourself? How long have you lied to yourself and convinced your mind that he is a divine being when, in fact, he is simply a man with irrevocable flaws? And if I am not so different than he, why is it you go with him when it is _my _ring you bear? Or used to, before that masked villain stole it from right under our noses! Have you had a chance to ask for it back yet? I very much hope so; it was my grandmother's ring, you see, a very precious family heirloom, and I do not like the idea of him having it for the rest of his miserable life."

Christine looked at him, her gaze hopeless and full of pity. Raoul suddenly felt very childish and foolish, and he quickly let go of her arm and took a step away from the bed, watching her.

"I will get your ring back for you, if that is all you care about," she said quietly. "But you cannot convince me to hate him, Raoul, just because you do. He has been my friend for years, and I will not abandon him now. And…I do not know what this argument means, but I will be coming back again in two days to see a doctor."

"Christine, please," Raoul choked. "Please, I – "

"Would you be kind enough to fetch Madam Giry for me?" she asked, turning to look at her folded hands. "I must hurry. Erik has promised to play my favorite piece tonight."

With slow, deadened steps, Raoul walked to the door and opened it.

"I am _not _stupid," Christine said suddenly, loudly. "I know what I am doing is right."


	8. Chapter 8

There was much commotion over Christine's visit to see the theatre doctor. Madam Giry shielded her from most of it, insisting she was very ill. The managers tried desperately to see her, but Giry would not allow it. Christine was grateful; she did not want to answer questions or be scrutinized under unkind eyes. The opera doctor was an overbearing man, albeit well-meaning, who clicked his tongue a lot and loved tales of the Opera Ghost. So, Christine naturally fascinated him. He asked her hundreds of questions and told her his own tales of the Ghost's existence.

"If you've really seen him, Mademoiselle, surely you know how ugly he is. Ah, unlucky for me I was not at the Masquerade; I could have seen him. Is it true that when he speaks all other sound stops?" He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "The tales are still fresh, though some leave much to be desired. But you! You are surely an expert among all here. He spoke to you directly at the Masquerade Ball! Rumor has it that you spent an evening with the Ghost. Time well spent, yes?" He chuckled to himself as he felt Christine's pulse.

Christine was grateful when he left her alone. She did not like him very much, and his questions made her feel uncomfortable. She was already distraught enough; her argument with Raoul had not been something she was expecting, and she did not know how Erik would react.

"Are you ready, my dear?" A voice, enchantingly lovely, drifted through the walls. Christine glanced at the door, as if expecting Raoul to come back inside, but he did not. Finally, Christine nodded, and Erik materialized from the shadows, looking every bit like the ghost the theatre doctor had described.

"You look worse than when I brought you up," the Phantom said, peering at her pale face. "You must get some sleep before I take you back to Monsieur Renard's. He will say that I have not been taking proper care of you."

Slowly and gently, he helped her stand and took her to the hidden door, which opened and revealed the long, labyrinthine cellars. With one last look at the warm room, Christine turned and leaned on the Phantom, walking slowly back down to his house on the lake.

"Did your fight with Monsieur Viscount distress you?" Erik demanded as soon as she was situated in his peculiar little parlor. Christine glanced at him, trying to decipher his true question behind the one he had asked.

"Raoul is very ill," Christine said. "I do not think he was well enough for us to speak rationally."

"So you admit he was behaving irrationally?" he asked, placing a long-fingered hand on his organ.

"Not behaving – speaking," Christine corrected. She was quiet for a moment, and then she sighed. "Some of the things he said were very true," she said, more to herself than to the Phantom.

"Which things?" the Phantom asked, glaring. "That you've been _dallying _with a _monster_? That my home is dreadfully romantic, with its secret passages and death-traps? My devil's face? Here – " He tossed a small, diamond-studded ring at her. She made no effort to catch it, and it rolled onto the floor, looking lovely and innocent to both of them. "Here is your precious heirloom."

"Not now, Erik," she begged wearily, closing her eyes. "Not now."

"Well _when_?" he said angrily. "I want answers from you too, Christine! Do you think you are the only one with questions? _Your _ten years were not the only ones spent in agonized torture! I've waited years to hear you say '_Not now'_? Well, that certainly solves everything!" He shoved a stack of music off his organ, and the papers flew across the floor.

Christine opened her eyes to glare at him. "I never want to marry," she snapped. "Never! Men are childish!"

His face was emotionless as he looked at her, which was an indicator that he _was_, in fact, feeling something that he did not want to portray.

"What of Monsieur Viscount?" he asked gloomily. "Have you not promised yourself to him?"

"That is no concern of yours," she replied haughtily, feeling rather unforgiving. "You had no right to spy on me like that."

"I had _every _right!" he said, surprisingly forceful. "I have watched over you for years! I've kept away malicious choral masters, luring stagehands, ruthless managers. I made you promise not to reveal your true talent simply to keep you safe from jealousy. I've kept away every single potential harm to you, Christine! And when that arrogant, self-assured boy pranced back into your life, did you imagine for one moment that I would simply leave you be? If he had dared to hurt you, all of my efforts would have been wasted!"

"You have not kept me shielded forever," Christine said. "My greatest harm came from you, Erik. You had lied to me for years, and then one night I found out that you are a man! I never told you this as an Angel, but I prayed every night for you to be real, to be tangible, so that I could see you as I sang and reach out to touch you. I loved you selfishly and wanted you to be mine. And then…when you sang to me that night, when I took off your mask – " She cut herself off with a shuddering sigh and looked away momentarily. "But it's no use dwelling on that. I know the truth now, as do you. I want to know what you intend, so that I may have time to grasp the idea."

He spread his hands out wide in a defenseless manner. "All my plans rest on you, Christine. I will care and provide for you as long as you need…You know how I feel about you."

There was a stiff silence, and the Phantom clenched his teeth and turned away.

Later that evening, while Christine was settled in the small bed, there was a slight knock on the door. The Phantom opened it halfway, and light spilled out across the dark room.

"Christine," he said quietly, "I don't want you to tell me anything yet. I will wait as long as you need." There was a pause, but Christine did not reply. "Sleep well," he finally said, and he shut the door softly.

"Hmm." A short, rounded finger lightly touched the edge of Christine's stitching, and she caught her breath in surprise, watching Doctor Renard's face intently.

He repeated his previous statement. "Hmm." After a moment more, he glanced down to Christine and smiled. "It is nothing to be worried about," Doctor Renard said. "There just seems to be some light stretching around the edges. Too much movement, perhaps?"

When Christine did not answer, he chuckled good-naturedly. "Of course, being bedridden is always a difficult task to master for a young wife." Christine's cheeks flared quickly, but still she did not reply. "However, I wish for your healing to be clean and your scar minimal. Your husband will undoubtedly do menial tasks for you and provide for you for another week or so." He assured her that there were no undesirable complications and that, if she abided by what he instructed, she could return in a week and have the stitches removed. Madam Renard then entered and helped her back into the light cotton dress in which Christine had arrived.

When she had shuffled into the front room, the Phantom hastily parted with the doctor and placed a large hand on Christine's arm. Christine did not reply but allowed him to set the shawl around her shoulders once again. Doctor Renard smiled at her as they left, and she sighed gratefully when the door shut behind them.

"You do not like them?" Erik asked hesitantly.

Christine glanced at him. "I do," she said. "But I do not enjoy being inspected by someone who is barely an acquaintance. It is always uncomfortable to visit a doctor of any sort, you know."

The evening had settled, and it was dark by the time they reached the Opera House. He helped her down from the carriage, allowing her to take as much time as she needed and with as little movement as possible. They quietly entered the back doors. There was no performance this evening, which was why the Phantom had picked it, and the Opera House was relatively empty.

"Erik," Christine suddenly said. "Would you mind if we went to my dressing room? I have some things that I would very much like to have."

"Have I forgotten something?" he asked, sounding slightly mortified.

She laughed, and he was enraptured by the sound. "No, not at all," she said kindly. "I would simply like to use my old combs and powders; women have a certain attachment to things that are theirs, you see."

Slightly puzzled by this, he agreed nonetheless. One hairbrush was just as good as another, wasn't it? They both worked the same way. However, it was such a simple request, and he wanted to make her happy. Slowly, he offered to carry her, reminding her of the doctor's instructions, and she accepted. They were in a companionable silence, Erik walking down mostly unused halls to get to Christine's dressing room.

When the door opened, there was a hoarse cry of, "Christine!"

Immediately, Erik backed out of the door, a habit of old, and Raoul approached the pair, looking haggard and unkempt. Tenseness began to rise out of thin air. She could practically _feel _Erik begin to tighten, close in on himself, waiting for an attack. She knew the impending danger of the situation.

"You!" Raoul snarled, and the Phantom stood his ground coldly. "Let her go!"

"By all means, I'm not holding her against her will," said Erik softly, his voice dripping with menace. Christine felt his long, hard fingers tighten around her. "Perhaps she has simply grown tired of you...the usual motions, you know, are not always the best and are always so tedious."

Raoul flushed angrily and spat, "You've bewitched her. She would never willingly stay with you."

Erik laughed coldly, his dark voice echoing around the room. It made the hairs on the back of Christine's neck stand on end. "And she would stay with _you_? You, who just stood there when she lay bleeding on the ground, and when you so – obviously – smell of alcohol."

"Stop it!" Christine finally said, looking to both of them. "Stop at once! Have you both forgotten that I am right here and I am quite capable of making my own choices?"

The Phantom stepped back once more, intent on disappearing, but Christine pushed hard against his chest and said, "Please set me down, Erik. I need to speak to Raoul. Alone."

There was a tense, heavy moment of silence, and Raoul glared at the Phantom, whose gaze was trained on Christine's determined face. Slowly, very slowly, he allowed her to slip from his arms and watch her walk into the dressing room and shut the door quietly. Like the shadow he was, the Phantom slipped through the walls and cracks and found himself behind the mirror just to hear Raoul say pleadingly,

" – what you think, Christine."

"Oh yes?" she said, looking magnificent and fiery. She stalked over, a hand on her stomach, to the little vanity mirror and sat on the stool. "It is just a strange coincidence that you smell like alcohol? That's it?"

"I haven't been drunk at all, I swear to you!"

"But you have been drinking," she said, turning her back to him and pulling out little shiny cans from the drawers.

"What are you doing?" Raoul asked sullenly, watching her every move intently.

"Simply gathering some things," she said. "I want them with me."

"So you are moving down there with him?"

The Phantom's heart leapt momentarily, but Christine said, "Of course not. That would be improper."

"Everything you are doing is improper," Raoul pointed out rudely, and then, seeing her expression, immediately amended, "Christine, I'm sorry, but – "

"Do you think I care what others think of me?" she said loudly. "I'm not doing anything wrong – I'm not! And that is good enough for me. It should be good enough for you, too!" After another moment of silence, she asked, "Have you been drinking, Raoul?"

"Well..." He paused, and then said hurriedly, "I did. One! Only one, and…it tasted so awful that I vomited it all back up."

Silence fell on the two, and then, without warning, they both began to giggle. Raoul innocently touched her shoulder, and she laughed harder.

The Phantom leaned heavily against the mirror, trying to make sense of it all. What were they doing? What was making them laugh like this? What was the secret? Why could he never get Christine to laugh – giggle free-heartedly? The Viscount always made her laugh; was it his witless jokes? The masked man watched them hungrily, wanting to share in Christine's joy. The Viscount fetched a white reticule at her request, and she began to put her items in it. Immediately, Raoul was morose once again.

"You are really going back down there?" he said.

"Yes." She sighed and closed the little bag. When she stood, there was a deep moment of silence as they looked at each other. Slightly trembling, Christine reached into a small pocket contained in her dress, and she pulled out the gold ring. Raoul took it silently, staring at her.

"This is it?" he whispered finally.

"No," Christine said simply. "My decision was hasty and I did not have time to think properly; neither did you, Raoul. I want us both to have time to consider this. Are you so sure that you want your family to turn against you because of me?"

"Yes!" he said immediately, clenching the ring tightly. "Yes! Christine, I love you!" His voice cracked slightly, and he looked at her helplessly. No matter how much the Phantom detested the Viscount, he could not help but feel sympathy for him. The pain and heartache of rejection hurt too badly to be described by words, and the Phantom could see it in every inch of the Viscount's face.

"I need time," Christine said sadly, reaching out to take his hand. "So do you."

"And you are going to spend your time with _him_!" Raoul said.

Christine said, "This is not about Erik."

"Of course it is!" Raoul snapped, frustrated by the topic that continued to return to his conversations. "Why else would we not be wed? Why would you have those stitches in you? Why could you not simply accept my proposal now?"

"I do not want to fight with you, Raoul," Christine said resignedly, though her voice was tugging with exhaustion. "You are my dear friend. I still care for you, but I want to give you the time you need, even if you think you do not."

When she turned to go to the door, Raoul seized her arm. "Wait – when can I see you? Please, tell me when we can speak again."

After a moment of consideration, Christine said, "Next week, when I return to the doctor's. Please don't try to see me before then. You will have adequate time to sort through everything."

When she opened the door, she saw Erik's back, his hands clasped there, seemingly uninterested in the proceedings in the next room. With a spiteful glance to Raoul that Christine did not see, Erik swept her up into his arms and disappeared into an awaiting trap-door.


	9. Chapter 9

"Don't move," the Phantom snapped irritably. "I will get it for you." Christine stilled herself on the little couch and watched his retreating back. He had entered the room this morning in a dark mood, and she couldn't imagine why. Four days had passed so peacefully. Perhaps he was growing weary constantly tending to her? She lived in her bed and on the red couch. He had restricted her movements severely, and she, too, was growing restless. When he returned and handed her the hair ribbon she wanted, she took it with a small 'Thank you,' and he stalked off to the organ, where he sat but did not play.

"I'm sorry that I tire you," Christine said finally. "I know I am not much for conversation. You are so clever; you must be endlessly bored with me."

"You don't _tire _me," he said, not looking at her. "You never have."

"What's wrong, then?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said stiffly. "Play with your ribbon."

Her temper flared suddenly. "Has it ever occurred to you that I am a real person in whom things can be entrusted? You have always wanted us to be closer, and yet you keep us apart."

"Why?" he hissed, finally looking at her. "Why would I tell you things? You will be leaving soon, anyway. Why should I trust you, only to have you go?"

"Who says I am leaving?" she said. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Why would you stay? There is nothing for you here. I can offer you nothing. _Nothing_, except an excuse for an existence, crouching under tons of earth and stone, yet you could have everything you wanted from someone else."

"I am staying for you, Erik. You have been my Angel for ten years, but now that you are real, things have changed. I want us to be friends."

"I want _more_!" he shouted suddenly, leaping from the small bench. It fell noisily to the ground. "I want _more_, and that is why you cannot stay, Christine! I will always want something from you. You will never have a moment's peace if you stay here longer than needed! No, it is better for you to leave me and go someplace where you will not be forced to handle me and my tempers and my pure _selfishness_."

"Angel – " she began.

"_Don't_!" he barked. "Don't call me that! You know I am not an angel."

There was silence. "Come sit by me," Christine said unexpectedly. Jerkily, awkwardly, he walked over and took a hesitant seat next to her, watching her suspiciously.

"I'm not condoning your actions, Erik," Christine said seriously. "You have hurt many people, and I find myself feeling responsible…" She reached out and placed a hand gently on his white mask. He wanted to pull away quickly, but the look in her eyes told him not to move. "This part of you should not make you feel this way. This does not lessen you. It does not make you inferior or debase you in any way."

"You have never lived with it," he said abruptly. "You do not know."

"I know I don't. This has caused you to do horrible things, but I don't want you to do them anymore. Please…just accept this part of you."

He stared at her. Her hand went to the corner of the white mask, and, instinctively, his hand flew to grab her wrist.

"Stop," he hissed dangerously. "Do you think you can simply talk me out of this? _This_ is the reason for everything that I am! I cannot simply forget it. Why do you think I live here? Do you think I actually _enjoy_ being a ghost, a Phantom? I hate it! I want to leave here and never come underground again. But I only want to do that with you, Christine." Now he was the one to reach up and touch her face. His fingers were long and cold against her cheek. Quickly, he took his hand away and stiffened angrily on the couch.

"Please," she finally said, her voice soft. "Let me see it."

He sighed heavily and muttered, "Perhaps this is for the best."

Slowly, so slowly, as if handling something incredibly delicate, he reached up and pulled off his white mask, exposing his ruined face. It was still as horrible as when Christine first saw it, and she had to steel herself not to flinch or look away. Seconds ticked away, painful and silent, and Erik sat with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. With trembling fingers, she reached up and gently laid them against his rough, damaged skin. A gasp escaped him, and his eyes flew open. Christine, however, did not look at him. She was studying the deformity, running fingers over it, feeling the skin under her fingers, collapsed and ruined beyond all repair. Like a child, she wanted to feel and understand, and she knew that her fears could be conquered if she _knew_.

With a shallow groan, he pulled away. "No more," he said hoarsely. "I beg of you."

She allowed him to replace his mask, his hands, for the first time, shaking. Suddenly, he looked at her, his eyes glowing.

"I want to tell you something," he said. "Perhaps it will not make any difference to you, but perhaps it will."

"Well, what is it?" She managed to smile encouragingly.

"That night," he said, "when you were at Renard's, you had lost so much blood. So much blood…everywhere, staining everything. And the doctor recommended an unusual procedure that had been successful in the past with substantial blood loss. It was a transfusion. Do you know what that means?"

She shook her head, watching him intently.

"Christine, he…he transferred some of my blood into you. Without it, your blood loss would have led to your death. Do you understand? My blood runs through your veins."

There was a deep, contemplative silence. Erik watched her nervously. Christine slowly took in the fact that they were physically connected. His blood was being pumped through her heart, traveling and touching everything inside of her. She stared at him. Even if she left, they would always be together. Finally, she said something.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for saving my life."

* * *

Raoul paced nervously, his thoughts scattered. Tonight, Christine was scheduled to return from having her stitches removed. A week after their last conversation – their last argument. What had happened?

He knew she would hardly be interested in hearing what happened to _him_. Raoul had sat around his house, thinking, moping, becoming morose then insanely excited, then sinking back into a thoughtful silence. His brother tried to get him out a few times, but Raoul was not much for company, and Philippe decided that it was, perhaps, better for Raoul to snap out of his strange mood before going back into the public view.

He was not thinking about how much he loved Christine. He was simply _thinking_ about her. Raoul spent entire days analyzing her, trying to see things how she saw them.

"Philippe," he asked once, "if you had a friend for ten years, and someone else came along who you loved, what would happen to your friend?"

Philippe looked at Raoul, his eyebrows raised. "What's this about?" he asked.

"What would happen?" Raoul pressed.

"Well…well, I suppose the friend couldn't simply disappear out of my life," said Philippe blunderingly. "Ten years is a good time for a good friendship to come about." He suddenly laughed. "What's this about, Raoul?"

"Nothing," Raoul muttered, slouching off to his bedroom.

Ten years of music! Years of singing and talking…and how was he, Raoul, supposed to compete against that? By reminding her of a few precious weeks spent at the seaside when they were young? He sighed angrily and flung himself down on his large bed. The clock was ticking away and, with a moan, he stood and made his way to the Opera House.

No matter what happened tonight, he wanted to remain the gentleman that Christine knew. Christine deserved nothing less than absolute civility from him. He would simply see how she was, see what she wanted, and try to give her that. Raoul knew that he only wanted Christine's happiness, whatever that ended up to be.

He waited restlessly for her at the Opera House, ignoring the music that came from the large theatre. Something was playing tonight, something of Meyerbeer's, but he couldn't force himself to be interested in it. How could he comprehend her need for music? He, although not tone deaf, had never paid attention to music theory or simply music in general. He couldn't tell one note from the next. And yet Christine and the Phantom craved it like an intoxicant. Together they satisfied their needs, and Raoul could only stand aside and hope that Christine would be happy with the music she would have as his wife: an occasional Opera House visit, a piano for her, and an expensive gramophone.

His ears picked up footsteps, and his heart raced frantically. He heard her voice, laughing, and a low rumble of a male voice, unintelligible. Suddenly, he wanted to cry; he had never wanted to really cry about all of this before, but, now, all he wanted was to return home and never emerge.

"Over here, Erik," said Christine, a definite smile in her voice. "He should be…"

They came into view, her walking, gripping his hand. The Phantom's eyes narrowed at Raoul, who somehow couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

"Good evening, Raoul," said Christine warmly. "You look well."

Did he? He hadn't bothered on appearances before he had left his house. He nodded tightly.

Christine turned and whispered something to the masked man, who dropped his gaze to hers. The warmth between them was obvious. Their bodies were close, turned to each other, her hands pressing his, and something in their gaze suggested the affection shared. He nodded once, and she quickly hugged him before he disappeared, swallowed up by the shadows and walls.

Raoul watched her beckon to him, and they entered her dressing room once again. She sat down on a little overstuffed chair and motioned for him to take a seat. He refused politely, fumbling with his hat clutched in his hands.

"I take it you are well?" he finally choked out. "Everything went smoothly?"

"Oh yes," she said happily. "Doctor Renard is such a sweet man. I'm very well now, though he should like me to come back in two weeks, just to be safe." She looked more closely at him and now, under the better light, could see his real expression. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Raoul?"

"Nothing," he said hastily. "Tell me how your week was."

There was a small pause. "It was very nice," she said lamely.

Another bout of silence passed between them, and he asked softly, "Have you kissed him?"

"I – " Her cheeks flushed dully under the light, and she sighed. "I suppose it wouldn't be wise to lie to you and tell you that we have not kissed, because we have."

He studied her intently. "Are you happy?"

"Yes," she said quietly, staring down at her hands. "I don't want to deny it any longer."

"I understand," he said. He approached her slowly, and then bent down to press a tender kiss against her cheek. "I hope you will continue to be happy, Christine," he said after he had straightened. "You look happy, and I expect you to look the same in twenty years."

"Raoul…?" she said softly, watching him.

"I know you love him," he murmured. "Everything about you says that: the way you look when you speak about him…or think about him. And I…I do not want to be in the way. How could I still be part of your life? I love you, Christine." His voice choked suddenly, and he swallowed the tears that threatened to come. "If you ever need anything, please come to me first. I would be happy to help you…and him."

Christine stood and wrapped her arms around him, the moment soft and reverent. She pressed her lips against his smooth cheek, whispering, "Thank you, Raoul. You will always be my dearest friend."

He smiled weakly when she stepped back. "The only thing I ask is that you send me an invitation," he said.

She blushed again. "Raoul!" she laughed lightly. "Nothing is set between us."

"I'm sure," he said, a gentle teasing manner creeping into his voice. He put his hand on the doorknob and looked at her sadly. "Goodbye, Christine." Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Christine was grateful that Erik said nothing as they made their way down to his peculiar little home. His hand was comfortable around her waist. Since the accident, Christine had not been able to wear a corset. Erik was highly aware of that fact – he could feel the real skin beneath the few layers of her cotton dress and chemise. All of its smooth, gentle softness was under his fingers; real, warm skin, no longer the hard, cold touch of her corset restricting her. As he moved his hand to her back to help her into the little boat, he nearly shivered.

When home, Christine quietly sat down in the sitting room and stared at the wall, her eyes vacant and blank.

"Christine?" Erik finally asked, his voice uncertain. She turned to him and saw fear in his eyes. Perhaps Christine felt pity for the boy. Perhaps she would leave him and go with the Viscount. Erik was not so sure he could be as dignified or courageous as Raoul de Chagny in letting Christine go.

Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him, and he, gratefully, returned the embrace, folding against her easily.

"Are you in pain?" he asked quietly.

"I was," she said, tightening her grip, desperate to not let him go. "I'm not anymore."


End file.
